Pulse Remembrance: Honouring Queer Lives and Holding Space for Our Grief, Our Rage, Our Hope
Every year, June 12 is a date that carves itself into our memories.
Pulse wasn’t just a nightclub. It was a refuge. A dance floor. A sanctuary. A place where queer and trans folks, especially Black and Brown Latinx LGBTQ+ people, could move freely, flirt fearlessly, and feel safe for a few hours in a world that often isn’t.
And then, in 2016, that safety was shattered.
Forty-nine people were taken from us in an act of hate and violence that targeted our community on Latin night, in a space built by and for us. Every year since, we remember them not just as victims, but as whole, radiant people: dancers, nurses, baristas, parents, siblings, lovers, best friends. Queer. Trans. Non-binary. Latinx. Black. Immigrant. Beautiful.
Remembering Pulse Is More Than Mourning—It’s Resistance
To remember Pulse is not only to honour grief, but to affirm life. It's to say: our people were here. Our people danced, loved, made art, raised children, showed up to work, texted friends, held hands, kissed in public, and found joy in a world that too often denies us that joy.
Mourning alone is not enough. Grief without action leaves us hollow. Remembering Pulse means confronting the systems of white supremacy, transphobia, xenophobia, homophobia, and gun violence that made such a massacre possible. It means refusing to let this be reduced to a footnote or a tragedy to be politely nodded at once a year.
Every time we show up as queer people, as non-binary people, as people who hold space for the complexity of this loss we resist the erasure that violence intends. We say: you did not erase us. You did not stop us from being whole. You did not win.
To remember is to resist. To resist is to survive. And survival is just the beginning, because we are not here just to survive. We are here to thrive, to transform, to build something beautiful.
Who Pulse Was For—and Why That Matters
Pulse wasn’t just a random queer venue. It was a space created for us, by us. And on Latin Night, it was intentionally centring queer, trans, and non-binary Latinx folks—Black and Brown people whose joy, movement, and cultural expression lit up that space.
To honour Pulse without naming this is to flatten it. It risks making the remembrance palatable instead of truthful.
We need to say it plainly: this was an attack on queer joy. On Black and Brown bodies. On immigrants. On trans femmes. On Latinx pride. And too often, mainstream narratives erase these identities to elevate a generic "LGBTQ+ tragedy" instead of telling the truth about who was most impacted.
When we remember Pulse, we must remember who was there, and why that matters. Because those identities weren’t incidental. They were targeted. And they are still targeted.
Our remembrance must centre the people who lived that night and lost their lives. Not just in names, but in voice, in cultural specificity, in spirit. If our memory sanitises who Pulse was really for, then we’re not remembering—we’re rewriting.
And while it’s impossible to capture the fullness of their lives in words, we honour each person we lost. Forty-nine queer and trans lives, most of them Black and Brown, many of them Latinx. Their names deserve to be spoken, their stories remembered. I invite you to read their names, learn about who they were, and hold space for them in your heart.
Akyra Monet Murray, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Amanda Alvear, Angel L. Candelario-Padro, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Antonio D. Brown, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Christopher A. Leinonen, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Cory J. Connell, Darryl R. Burt II, Deonka D. Drayton, Eddie J. Justice, Edward Sotomayor Jr., Enrique L. Rios Jr., Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, Frank Hernandez, Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, Jason B. Josaphat, Javier Jorge-Reyes, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Jean C. Nieves Rodriguez, Jerald A. Wright, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Juan Chavez-Martinez, Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Juan R. Guerrero, Kimberly Morris, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis D. Conde, Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, Luis S. Vielma, Martin Benitez Torres, Mercedez M. Flores, Miguel A. Honorato, Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, Paul T. Henry, Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, Shane E. Tomlinson, Simon A. Carrillo Fernandez, Stanley Almodovar III, Tevin E. Crosby, Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, and Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan.
Collective Grief Needs Collective Healing
Grief doesn’t follow a script. It arrives in waves quietly during the morning scroll, loudly during Pride speeches, silently in a dance floor pause when you remember who’s no longer here. And for queer and trans people, especially those of us holding multiple marginalised identities, that grief is never just personal. It’s collective. Historical. Ongoing.
We don’t get the luxury of forgetting. But we do get the choice to remember together.
Healing isn’t linear, and it’s not always gentle. But it can begin in shared space at vigils, in living rooms, on dance floors, and inside online community threads where we grieve openly, messily, and without apology.
For me, healing often looks like finding softness in queer joy. It’s in reclaiming the spaces that fear tried to close off to us. It’s in blasting music, kissing our partners, saying “I love you” to our friends, and building rituals that remind us we are still here, alive and worthy.
Pulse took 49 of our people. But it also reminded us: our community knows how to carry each other through. And we always will.
Centering Queer and Trans Voices in Remembrance
Too often, queer and trans people, especially Black, Brown, and non-binary folks, are the last to be heard even when we’re the first to be harmed. Remembrance without our voices at the centre isn’t remembrance: it’s erasure.
When we talk about Pulse, we can’t afford to generalise or make it palatable for the mainstream. We must centre those who lived the reality. Survivors. Families. Organisers. QTBIPOC voices. Trans voices. Non-binary voices. Latinx voices. Immigrant voices. Voices that carry the truth of what Pulse meant, and what was lost.
Remembrance must make space for rage as much as reflection. For grief that is uncontained. For stories that are uncomfortable or inconvenient. Because healing doesn’t happen through silence, it happens through truth-telling.
And centring queer and trans voices doesn’t stop with Pulse. It extends to every conversation about safety, justice, and belonging. We are the ones who know what we need. Listen to us. Follow our lead. Resource our work. Remember that honouring the dead means fighting like hell for the living.
Supporting the Work: What We Can Do
Honouring Pulse isn’t a once-a-year ritual—it’s a call to action to show up for each other. Grief asks us to feel. Justice asks us to move.
If you're wondering how to honour the lives lost and support the living, start local. Start relational. Start now.
Support queer and trans-led organisations, especially those run by and for BIPOC communities. These are the people doing the work every day. They’re creating safe spaces, providing affirming healthcare, organising mutual aid, and building futures rooted in justice.
Put your money and energy where your values are. Donate if you can. Volunteer if you’re able. Share their work even if all you have is a platform.
Call out injustice when you see it. Whether it's misgendering at work, transphobic policies in your city, or the casual cruelty of everyday conversations—interrupt it.
Show up for queer joy. Buy art by non-binary creators. Celebrate drag unapologetically. Protect trans kids. Amplify queer educators, writers, and organisers. Visibility without support is not enough. We need tangible action.
The truth is: most of us won’t change the world on our own. But we can start with how we show up in our communities and what we choose to prioritise.
Pulse reminds us that silence has a cost. Action is how we honour the memory.
Gun Violence & Queer Safety Are Intertwined
We also can’t talk about Pulse without talking about guns. It wasn’t just hate that killed our people—it was an AR-15.
We often speak about creating safe spaces in our community. But how safe can we be when weapons of war are so easily accessible? When hate is armed, and policy refuses to protect us?
The fight for LGBTQ+ safety is inseparable from the fight for gun reform. And if we want to honour those taken from us, we have to push for real change. That means advocating for gun control laws that save lives, supporting organisations that do the work, and refusing to accept the idea that this kind of violence is inevitable.
Some groups doing powerful work at this intersection include:
If you’re angry, you’re not alone. Turn that anger into action. Donate. Show up. Write your reps. Refuse to be quiet.
Queer Love Is Revolutionary
The people we lost at Pulse were not statistics. They were full, vibrant beings—living, loving, and building community in the ways queer people always have: with defiance, creativity, and deep joy.
We carry them forward every time we choose to live fully. Every time we hold hands in public. Every time we build safer spaces. Every time we say, You are valid, You are sacred, You belong.
Our love, whether for ourselves, for one another, for the ones no longer here, is revolutionary. It resists erasure. It refuses to disappear. It dares to imagine something better than survival: liberation, rest, and the right to thrive.
So as we remember Pulse this year, let’s do it with tenderness and truth. Let’s honour the people we lost not just by mourning, but by building the world they deserved to live in.
And let’s remind each other: we are not alone. We are not broken. And we are not finished.
We are here. And we are the future.
If this remembrance moved something in you—grief, anger, love, resolve—hold onto that. Let it guide what you do next.
To learn more about the lives lost and the work continuing in their memory, visit the onePULSE Foundation. And if you want to keep exploring stories, reflections, and tools for queer resilience and visibility, you're welcome here—always.
Subscribe to Enby Meaning for more writing that uplifts our people, deepens our understanding, and keeps the conversation alive.
